The Periphery of the Mind

I was having dinner at the Cracker Barrell in Springdale last Saturday night, and Maryanne had gone to bathroom, leaving me to just sit there and gawk as a plate of fried shrimp pleasantly explored my digestive tract. I looked across the room, gazing at framed advertisements from 50 years ago, antique sports gear, and waitresses wearing shirt, slacks, apron, and fluffly rabbit ears. A man, possibly a manager, came in and threw a few logs onto the fire, stirring the flames and wood with an iron pole. I noted neither he nor any of the other male staff wore the rabbit ears, and decided that while it may be sexist it was also a "good thing."

As I sat there, waiting for Maryanne and looking about the place, a woman entered the room, my eyes moving more towards the source of movement than any interest in people. Perhaps it was the height of the chair, combined with my relaxed slump in the chair, but as I looked over at her I immediately noticed the large size of the woman's breasts. I glanced up, and thought her face was plain but rather pretty. It was only then that I finally noticed that she walked with a crutch and only had one leg.